roadtrips101

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[roadtrips101]

Wig Styling Tips & Tricks: Volume / The “Duck-butt”- PART 2

Part 1 (Materials/Tools) 

Cosplay Page

The long awaited part 2 of my wig styling basics tutorial! And I do apologize for the wait, ahahah. This tutorial covers the basic tips and tricks that I and many others use to add volume and lift to a wig and despite the significant change it produces, the method is actually really simple! If you master it, you’ll be styling wigs like my Lapis wig in a matter of 10-15 mins flat~ This tutorial is great for any characters that have that weird flippy duck butt hairstyle! 

Keep reading

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at Le Scandal

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we are happy being ourselves.

Sometimes at the cabaret when people come up to do their burlesque numbers in nipple tassels or undies, I feel this overarching sense of exultation and serenity because I'm looking into the audience from behind my drums on the stage, and I see how happy everyone is: they're laughing and drinking, they're with friends or family, and no one seems to be upset at all, at least superficially. The performers enjoy their own bodies, celebrating them in all the ability their bodies provide. It becomes a respectful celebration of everything secular and my thoughts transcend the cabaret into something more human, but also more than human. I forget how overtly sexual the choreography is, and its playfulness subverts any puritanical aversion to overt sexuality any American may be prone to suffering. I see myself in the warmth of the audience, the performers, the music, and the lights. Eventually I forget my own body and in that small space, I sense  my place in this moment, and what these memories we are sharing will mean to us in the future. Behind my grin and the warm embrace of the lights that color our skin, I feel the need to shake my head, rid myself, purge the pestering yet sobering and true melancholic thought :

Why would anyone want to demonize sexuality or the sexualization of another?

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People Put Their Arms In A Hole, Letting This Tattoo Artist Ink Whatever He Wants

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Female Sessions presenta: Libro "El Caparazón Perdido" de Teri Gender Bender

Female Sessions presenta: Libro “El Caparazón Perdido” de Teri Gender Bender en Museo de Paleontología de Guadalajara 

El dolor es una experiencia emocional (subjetiva) y sensorial (objetiva), generalmente desagradable, que pueden experimentar todos aquellos seres vivos que disponen de un sistema nervioso. Es una experiencia asociada a una lesión tisular o expresada como si ésta existiera. 

El Caparazón Perdido (The Missing Carcass) es una colección de poemas escritos por Teri Gender Bender que se centraliza en imágenes mentales del dolor humano y hasta animal. Poemas abstractos y hasta uno puede llegar a pensar sin sentido pero a final de cuentas es una historia de la vida y la muerte en limbo en busca del caparazón que se perdió el 8 de Abril del 2003. El libro contiene una introducción de la editora innovadora Daniela Rábago, creadora de Female Sessions. 

Se estrena corto de invitada especial (TBC) y expocisión fotográfica de Susana Gómez

El libro también estará a la venta 150 pesos. 

Empieza: Jun 9, 2011 7:00 PM

Termina: Jun 9, 2011 10:00 PM

Locación: Museo de Paleontología de Guadalajara Av Dr. R. Michel 520, esquina Gonzalez Gallo Guadalajara, Jalisco Mexico www.femalesessions.com www.twitter.com/lebutcherettes

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Good morning slaves and minions to #capitalism (tm)... Yes, we all know why you are up at this godly hour. I'm going to be sharing this message throughout the day, reminding everyone to tune in to our new goth-punk anti-comedy Public Cemetery, premiering tonight at 11PM on MNN. If you love #TimandEric and #TheMightyBoosh, hate your part-time fast food employers, and/or appreciate Siouxsie Sioux's eyebrows for the glorious entities they are, you will most likely love us (and #pizza). PS our hashtag is #publiccemetery. Episode 1 will also be available for live streaming at www.MNN.org for the 98% of you who don't plan to watch it on the actual television. MNN Channel 4 for Manhattanites. (at New York, New York)

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People with BPD like to preach about their honesty and harsher-than-reality truth-telling because they tell so many fucking half truths just to get their way and end up always feeling guilty and insecure about it until they fucking stop.

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I smiled into her face— a smile the outcome of which I knew not, except that I was determined that it should not go to waste. I also laughed lest the surprise in her face should turn to animosity. Then she smiled. I stood beside her for about a quarter of an hour, laughing when the speaker's words made her laugh— loudly so that she might be affected by the contagion of it. Then came the moment when I felt that she and I had become like a mare and foal running in harmony side by side. A sound, as though it were not my voice, issued from my throat: 'What about a drink, away from this crowd and heat?' She turned her head in astonishment. This time I smiled— a broad innocent smile so that I might change astonishment into, at least, curiosity. Meanwhile I closely examined her face: each one of her features increased my conviction that this was my prey. With the instinct of a gambler I knew that this was a decisive moment. At this moment everything was possible. My smile changed to a gladness I could scarcely keep in rein as she said: 'Yes, why not?' We walked along together; she beside me, a glittering figure of bronze under the July sun, a city of secrets and rapture. I was pleased she laughed so freely. Such a woman—there are many of her type in Europe— knows no fear; they accept life with gaiety and curiosity. And I am a thirsty desert, a wilderness of southern desires. As we drank tea, she asked me about my home. I related to her fabricated stories about deserts of golden sands and jungles where non-existent animals called out to one another. I told her that the streets of my country teemed with elephants and lions and that during siesta time crocodiles crawled through it. Half-credulous, half-disbelieving, she listened to me, laughing and closing her eyes, her cheeks reddening. Sometimes she would hear me out in silence, a Christian sympathy in her eyes. There came a moment when I felt I had been transformed in her eyes into a naked, primitive creature, a spear in one hand and arrows in the other, hunting elephants and lions in the jungles. This was fine. Curiosity had changed into gaiety, and gaiety to sympathy, and when I stir the still pool in its depths the sympathy will be transformed into a desire upon whose taut strings I shall play as I wish. 'What race are you?' she asked me. 'Are you African or Asian?' 'I'm like Othello— Arab-African,' I said to her. 'Yes,' she said, looking into my face. 'Your nose is like the noses of Arabs in pictures, but your hair isn't soft and jet black like that of Arabs.' 'Yes, that's me. My face is Arab like the desert of the Empty Quarter, while my head is African and teems with a mischievous childishness.' 'You put things in such a funny way,' she said laughing. "The conversation led us to my family, and I told her— without lying this time— that I had grown up without a father. Then, returning to my lies, I gave her such a terrifying descriptions of how I had lost my parents that I saw the tears well up in her eyes. I told her I was six years old at the time when my parents were drowned with thirty other people in a boat taking them from one bank of the Nile to the other. Here something occurred which was better than expressions of pity; pity in such instances is an emotion with uncertain consequences. Her eyes brightened and she cried out ecstatically: 'The Nile.' 'Yes, the Nile.' 'Then you live on the banks of the Nile?' 'Yes. Our house is right on the bank of the Nile, so that when I'm lying on my bed at night I put my hand out of the window and idly play with the Nile waters till sleep overtakes me.' Mr Mustafa, the bird has fallen into the snare. The Nile, that snake god, has gained a new victim. The city has changed into a woman. It would be but a day or a week before I would pitch tent, driving my tent peg into the mountain summit. You, my lady, may not know, but you— like Carnarvon when he entered Tutankhamen's tomb— have been infected with a deadly disease which has come from you know not where and which will bring about your destruction, be it sooner or later. My store of hackneyed phrases is inexhaustible. I felt the flow of conversation firmly in my hands, like the reins of an obedient mare: I pull at them and she stops, I shake them and she advances; I move them and she moves subject to my will, to left or to right. 'Two hours have passed without my being aware of them,' I said to her. 'I've not felt such happiness for a long time. And there's so much left for me to say to you and you to me. What would you say to having dinner together and continuing the conversation?' For a while she remained silent. I was not alarmed for I felt that satanic warmth under my diaphragm, and when I feel it I know that I am in full command of the situation. No, she would not say no. 'This is an extraordinary meeting,' she said. 'A man I don't know invites me out. It's not right, but—' She was silent. 'Yes, why not?' she then said. 'There's nothing to tell from your face you're a cannibal.' 'You'll find I'm an aged crocodile who's lost its teeth,' I said to her, a wave of joy stirring in the roots of my heart. 'I wouldn't have the strength to eat you even if I wanted to.' I reckoned I was at least fifteen years her junior, for she was a woman in the region of forty, whose body— whatever the experiences she had undergone— time had treated kindly. The fine wrinkles on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth told one not that she had grown old, but that she had ripened. Only then did I ask her name. 'Isabella Seymour,' she said. I repeated it twice, rolling it round my tongue as though eating a pear. 'And what's your name?' 'I'm— Amin. Amin Hassan.' 'I shall call you Hassan.' With the grills and wine her features relaxed and there gushed forth— upon me— a love she felt for the whole world. I wasn't so much concerned with her love for the world, or for the cloud of sadness that crossed her face from time to time, as I was with the redness of her tongue when she laughed, the fulness of her lips and the secrets lurking in the abyss of her mouth. I pictured her obscenely naked as she said: 'Life is full of pain, yet we must be optimistic and face life with courage.' Yes, I now know that in the rough wisdom that issues from the mouths of simple people lies our whole hope of salvation. A tree grows simply and your grandfather has lived and will die simply. That is the secret. You are right, my lady: courage and optimism. But until the meek inherit the earth, until the armies are disbanded, the lamb grazes in peace beside the wolf and the child plays water-polo in the river with the crocodile, until that time of happiness and love comes along, I for one shall continue to express myself in this twisted manner. And when, puffing, I reach the mountain peak and implant the banner, collect my breath and rest— that, my lady, is an ecstasy greater to me than love, than happiness. Thus I mean you no harm, except to the extent that the sea is harmful when ships are wrecked against its rocks, and to the extent that the lightning is harmful when it rends a tree in two. This last idea converged in my mind on the tiny hairs on her right arm near to the wrist, and I noticed that the hair on her arms was thicker than with most women, and this led my thoughts to other hair. It would certainly be as soft and abundant as cypress-grass on the banks of a stream....

Season of Migration to the North 

[roadtrips101]

Coming soon to free tv #mnn #publiccemetery #spooky #art #hipster (at New York, New York)

[roadtrips101]

DO NOT REPOST!

Firstly, Hello to all the new followers and people who have sent lovely messages my way or left nice comments. Thank you!

Secondly..

This is a huge problem for artists on the internet, but let me remind folks that it is not okay to repost artist’s work without proper and full credit given, as well as a link back to original source. Most creatives, like myself, rely on internet traffic to make a living and although most of us put watermarks and such on our work, it is still unacceptable/misleading/annoying when work is reposted without proper credit.

This goes for Tumblr blogs, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook and also sites such as Imgur or similar. By all means, please share work that you like! That’s one of the best things you can do to help out an artist you like but you MUST give proper credit and provide a link to the original work if you do so. 

Thank you to the kind people that alert me to uncredited reposts. You are great! Any repost I see will be reported in the hopes that something might get done about them.. 

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Technically speaking, when life hands you lemons (without electricity, a blender, water and sugar) you only really have three choices: eat it and pretend it’s lemonade, get pissed and find a better stand, or take it as a peace offering and find all that important stuff yourself.

Beatrix LaNuit (via bravadough)

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“Do you remember the start, where it all came down?”

The World Is A Beautiful Place And I Am No Longer Afraid To Die - Mental Health 

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TFW "... You're in the only industry that pays better to look good than to feel good..." #drumming #musician

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please follow this soul

#day 562 #daily #sketch #art #doodle #ink #pen it didn’t occur to me until now how time consuming writing these tales are - additionally to the sketch itself!

reminds me. I picked up a couple answers to writer-questions I had during the month I went silent. I was taking a English workshop so I got to explore how different writers go about handling non-writing things. Here’s a couple of realizations:

1. No matter how good or clean the writing is, there is always going to be one oddball who completely misinterpreted everything you said.

2. Writing is like speaking. If you speak to hurt, you’ll probably write to hurt. See number 1.

3. The subject you choose to write about, no matter what it is is intrinsically related to how you feel about that subject. As long as you know what you meant, you will probably sleep easier. But still see number 1.

4. You don’t actually ever have to respond to anyone or anything. This is a problem I have; its a great problem considering I have awesome friends who read what I say, but some responses require a lot of attention. Also, again, talking begets more talking. I take pride in responding band interacting, but I actually once skipped a day of class because I took the time to thoroughly respond. So in other words, in my case, I have to pick and choose my battles based on time.

5. Using acronyms like “idk” is really not good for my writing agenda. These are temporary and… Disposable. The old guy in my class said “contemporary bullshit” or something… He was a cool guy.

6. I have to be careful of my writing “persona.” I made the mistake a while ago when I “expressed” that sometimes I use to feel like “killing myself.” I thought it was cool to share an intimate moment, but I made the mistake in forgetting that:

7. Not everyone reads everything consistently. So the point where I mentioned “it’s only an analytical feeling; a stress signal where my brain processes something that needs to be removed.” Is overlooked

8. The black and white nature of my brain brought me a lot of love and that made me sad because I don’t deserve that generosity. Never again. Also phone typing is insane. (And limiting) See number one

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child and the caramel cube

my mother beat me as a child: for cursing, for lying, laziness or  speaking up, speaking out  with just a belt, just  a spoon,  and sometimes just her simmering skin when none of them were near—  minority style, with fear:  fear that here, I in my growth  and pending death, would echo poverty  from sharing the same air we all breath would likely lose it all what bit we had of wellness, finance,  morals in the South Bronx:  all four of us, passers-by when cousin ran to ring a bell, and sprang off the ball of her foot  and back to our dreary jaunting mother, turned around to hit me hard on the head:  I had          nothing  I had done nothing  I had done nothing wrong but mother worried that I would—  or maybe that she had wrong me as I cried and cried and cried asking why, but why, but why… she produced a caramel cube  and we continued onwards